Isn't it interesting that we tend to think of time almost as a raw material, a resource, a fuel? We say we "spend" time. We speak of using it up. We even accuse ourselves of wasting it. This all seems to make sense. And yet...
What if it's more like a matrix or a space in which to store things? A treasure box to fill with treasure? A honeycomb in which we store the honey of memories and good deeds?
What difference would it make for us, if we adopted this metaphor of time as honeycomb? Well, maybe a big one.
I remember, back when my son was still really young, say three and four and five--dealing with this question of time a lot. Taking him to the playground. Listening to him talk and talk and talk. Dressing him. Feeding him. Bathing him. Washing and folding his clothes. Reading to him. Taking him for walks in the woods, his little hand in mine, his other one holding a leaf. All this took time, and a great deal of time. But what's more important than taking care of your little boy, who needs and loves you? What sweeter honey to fill the honey-comb of your life could there ever, ever be?
It's a hard thing to get away from thinking we have to measure time out oh-so-carefully. Buy as much life-activity with every second as possible. Hoard it. Keep it close. But it's worth adjusting our point of view.
After all, when the honey comb is finally full, and the ultimate harvest has come, how do we want to be remembered? Surely we want people to say something like: "What a sweet life he lived, so full of affection and love; he never thought twice about helping." Or, "She always had time for me; in her presence I always felt like a gift."
HB
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